Of A Feather
by CSI Clue
Summary: Sparks and feathers fly between Happy Hogan and Natasha Romanov Iron Man2
1. Chapter 1

There it was, between us.

I mean, I saw it right away—damned hard to miss, even for a guy my age. _She _on the other hand, was too busy with some 'save the world' business to spot it, but I figured she'd catch on the minute she turned around and saw me.

I was gonna regret that, because bent over that keyboard, she had one fine booty, too.

Hey, I'm a guy, and she changed her clothes in the back of my _car_ not less than an hour ago. Okay, it's not _my _car, legally, but it falls under the Stark umbrella so I've earned a little patronage there.

Changed her _clothes_—where the hell did they come from? Did she do this sort of shit often? This, this, Mata Hari outta the back seat thing?

Honest to God, working for Tony ages me ten years every damned incident, and if you don't believe that, you need to check the glove box for the collection of antacids I'm carrying now.

Anyway, back to the moment at hand. Tony and Pepper were sniping again—nothing new there—but I sensed there was some oomph in it now. The dying news was not good, but given that just after that the Boss said he wasn't anymore, I was relaxing a bit. It was clear to me that he was back to being the Boss too. Something about that damned Suit brings it out big time. New agers can all it Alpha male if they wanna. I know it's machismo, and it saves the world.

So she turns around and there it is, big and kinda evil-looking to the uninitiated. Luckily I am not one of those, so I know what's what.

She, on the other hand, suddenly looks nervous, which is almost freaking hil-AR-ious given the body count out in the hallway behind us. She freezes and stares with those big green peepers of hers.

"Happy," she says.

I nod.

"Happy . . . that thing . . ."

Yeah she's nervous. Clearly she hasn't been around ones this big before, and I'm too much of a gentleman to snicker about it.

That, and I know just how badly she could kick my ass if I did, not that I would.

"You want me to . . ?" I offer, just to give her an out.

I can't believe how fast she nods. She's breathing hard, and I'm trying not to grin because wonder of wonders, I finally can do something better than Miss Natalie Rushman. Carefully, I move and reach out, just like I used to do years ago at my Uncle Max's place and cup my hands quickly, lightly around the wings, pinning carefully.

The trick is to grab high up enough so that the damned bird can't hook that bottom jaw under any fingers. Do that, and you've gott'em. Don't do that, and you'll probably lose a finger.

It squawks loud enough to deafen, and I can see Natalie wince and cringe at the sound, but that's outta the corner of my eye. The feathers are smooth, and even though it's struggling, I've got just the right grip. Not too hard, not too loose. Big hands come in handy sometimes.

Nice sulphur crested; probably cost a couple of grand, to my way of thinking. Not that I'm any bigwig with birds, but Uncle Max had a few, and this one looks to be in primo condition. I know the thing's terrified though, and I don't want to stress it out, so I nod with my chin towards the cage in the corner. "Cage."

Natalie is on it before I can finish saying the word. She holds it out in front of her like a shield, eyes locked on my package.

Well, the bird, that is. Anyway, I step forward, and here's the second hilarious thing; she steps back.

"I can't put him in the cage if you back up," I tell her. She nods, trying to get back her badass mojo, and holds the cage up again.

We do the same damned dance step again; I go forward, she moves back. "Natalie!"

"Sorry, sorry; I . . . I just don't like . . . birds," she mutters.

"Look, set it down on something and I'll just . . . pop it in, okay?"

"Okay," she agrees. She set the cage down on the cot and scoots around me while I stand there patiently.

"Natalie."

"Why aren't you . . . oh," she mutters again, and reaches around me to open the door of the cage.

Can I just say for the record that having her pressed up behind me and reaching alongside me is one hell of a nice sensation? Generally the only person who gets behind me is the boss, and never that close. Natalie is a nice damned change of pace in that department.

I stick my hands into the doorway, open then, and then pull back quick so I can latch the door. Good thing, too; the bird is fighting mad now, and squawking again, climbing up the bars and giving me that 'oh I could take you anytime I LIKE, you asshole!' eye.

He probably could. I've seen some vicious bites from birds, and while I've got tough calluses, I'm not real anxious to test them against that wicked hook of beak.

I look around again, but Natalie's on it, and brings the cover for the cage. I slip it on and instantly the room's quiet again, except for the chatter from the computer, and Natalie breathing hard.

Staring's outta the question, even though I want to, so I keep my eyes on the cage. "Whatta we do with it?"

"Leave it!" she tells me, with a little hint of hysteria in her voice.

I shoot her a look. An 'are you nuts?' look. "If we leave it, do you have any idea what the hell's gonna happen to it?"

"Happy, S.H.I.E.L.D. will be swarming this place in ten minutes, and as far as I'm concerned they can put Vanko's pet on a plane back for Moscow in eleven minutes, got it?"

"Natalie, it's a _bird."_ I point out. "You just took out a squadron of professional goons back there and you're getting all tweaked up over a damned cockatoo?"

"I don't see a correlation," she snaps, and I get it. She's embarrassed about being scared, and that little insight cracks me up but because I _don't_ want to end up tasered or hogtied on the floor, I put on my best poker face and shrug.

"Fine. I'm gonna take him, then. Maybe you and Tony can save all of humanity out there; me, I can give a damned bird a good home."

"Are you out of your *mind* Hogan?" she says, looking at me and then at the cage. "For one thing, that's private property."

"What? Is S. H. I. E. L. D. gonna give him a good home?"

"No," She blurts out honestly.

That pisses me off. Not the honesty, but the fact. I'm not crazy about birds myself, but this one didn't deserve being manhandled or shuffled off or terminated just for being an inconvenient accessory. And cute ass or not, Natalie is letting her personal dislike show.

"Exactly. So as of now, I'm taking him to a . . . place of haven and safety."

Where the hell _that _came from I'll never know. It's not like I can have a pet; working for Tony has me jumping 24/7 as it is, and I don't want to relive the notorious Guppy incident of six years ago.

But I'm not gonna stand by and see some ultra secret spy unit waste an innocent bird. That ain't the American way, and I don't care if Natalie has to Rochambeau me to get the thing back. Hell, I know damned well she won't, because she hasn't moved an inch closer since I've picked up the cage.

"You're claiming political asylum for a _bird?"_ Natalie hoots, cocking her head and looking perplexed.

She's got hot hair, she really does. I've always been partial to redheads.

"If that's what it takes," I nod firmly. I am SO talking out my ass at this moment. Do animals qualify? What if the damned bird only understands Russian?

"Hogan," Natalie begins, looking like she's about to laugh, but right then sirens start wailing and under his cover, Bird is going a little nuts thrashing in his cage.

"I'm getting him outta here," I tell her, and do.

My uncle Max stands about five feet tall, but nobody ever realizes that because he's loud.

Tony uses the same strategy, I swear.

Anyway, I show up at my uncle's doorstep a few days later with the bird, grateful that I've got a couple of days to spare since Tony's not exactly needing my services at the moment, what with cleaning up the Expo and hashing out some sort of new . . . relationship thing with Pepper.

Oh boy, _that's _going to be interesting.

Anyway, I had the time, and a jet was heading back to California anyway, so I took the bird to Uncle Max, who is now giving it the once over through some very thick glasses.

"Young male, about tree, I tink," Uncle Max says. I can't get over how bug-eyed those specs make him.

The bird is sort of . . . well, droopy. I'm not an expert, the way Uncle Max is, but even I can see that he's a little on the depressed side.

Frankly, that I don't get. Given what Ivan Vanko looked like, if I was a bird, I'd be_ thrilled_ to get away from that murdering graffiti-covered maniac.

"What's wrong with him?" I ask. "He's not eating much."

Uncle Max gives me one of his patented 'don't be stupid' looks. "De boid is depressed, Harry. He lost his pipple."

"His people? You mean he _liked _the guy taking care of him?"

This is crazy, but it's a bird, and hey, what do_ I_ know, right? Uncle Max is the expert, and given the number of cages around the house, I know I'm at the right place for an informed diagnosis.

"Yeah," Max assures me. "Cockatoos, dey luf dere pipples. Make good comrades, very loyal. Dis boid needs a new poison to love."

I paste on my best shit-eating grin, and Uncle Max sighs. "Harry---"

"Look, it _can't _be me, Max, you *know* that," I plead. "I work for _Stark!"_

"Yah," Uncle Max agrees. "You already gotta pushy needy poison in yer life."

"No shit," I agree, but I don't feel any annoyance. It's the boss and life isn't always easy, but it's sure as hell never boring, that's a fact.

"Fine, fine. I can hank onto him for a vile," Uncle Max harrumphs. It's a good thing I can see how secretly pleased he is though, and I'm not feeling too damned guilty about it. If anything, the bird will be in good hands that aren't afraid of him, and I can sleep a little better, knowing I've done the right thing. It's not on par with say, cleaning up most of Flushing, New York, but it's my little contribution.

"Take da cage, okay?—not big enough for dis boy," Max tells me with a wave of his free hand.

I'm staring because the bird is sitting on Max's fist. Sitting there, no fuss no squawking.

Part of me feels better already, knowing I've helped here. I don't get to do that too often, but this little bit makes me relax, and I give a nod.

Maybe it's going to work out.

I spend an hour with Uncle Max, looking at all his lorikeets and canaries and parrots, shooting the breeze and relaxing for the first time since Monaco, and when I take off, I collect the empty cage.

Maybe I can use it to hold a fake skull at Halloween or something.

So two days later, and I am cooling my heels, still waiting for the boss—make that THE bosses I guess—to head back to this coast. I've done all my laundry, paid my bills, worked on some of my sideline business and now I'm about to take a long bath to consider exactly how to work a swordfight into a balcony seduction scene when I get an unexpected visitor.

And not at the front door, either.

I step into my bathroom, reach for the hot water handle and suddenly I'm face-first in the fuzzy bathmat with a booted foot on the back of my neck.

"Hel-lo Natalie," I growl into the shag.

"Actually, it's Natasha," she manages, and I feel a lessening of the pressure on my neck. I want to roll, grab that foot and twist, because that's what I _should_ be able to do.

But I'm addicted to living.

"Can I get up?"

"No."

"_May_ I get up?"

"Yes," she agrees and I do, suddenly aware that I'm in my boxers, which is not a great look for me.

Natasha however, is very hot in her black spandex jumpsuit and again, that hair is all over the place, driving me nuts.

"I need something from you," she murmurs, and for a split second, God forgive me, I'm on the Tony Stark level, thinking of spankin' hot sex all over my bathroom sink fixtures.

Then reality kicks in by the second half of that split second. "You couldn't just, say, _call?_ Maybe send an email or something?"

"Hogan," she growls at me, and I can tell she's a little impatient.

A little . . . . embarrassed.

That clues me in, and I put on my Stone Face. "No."

She gives me a look that assures me I'll be in a neck brace before I can close my mouth, but I'm firm on this.

"We need the bird."

"Bull."

"S.H.I.E.L.D. has gone though Hammer's files and factory, we've searched Vanko's body and the bits of his drones, and now we need . . ." she stops and swallows, ". . . the bird."

"For?" I prod. I'm also trying to suck in my gut, which depresses me because it's not going to make a damned bit of difference to a hottie like Natalie/Natasha. She's not meeting my eyes though, and is looking around my bathroom.

God I'm so glad I flushed.

"Look, you don't need to _know_ why we need the bird, Hogan, and I won't like making you tell me, but I follow orders to the letter," she mutters. "Are those . . . monkeys on your shorts?"

"Yes, they are and yes, I do," I tell her, getting a little steamed now. "It's a freaking _Cockatoo_ okay? They don't memorize secret formulas, and they don't swallow capsules with encrypted codes in them. You and your shadow feds are gonna do an avian autopsy only he won't be dead yet and all you're going to find inside him are bird guts."

"We can't find Vanko's schematics," Natasha growls at me and I blink.

Hot? Oh shit yeah, but I can-not let myself get distracted by that. "What?"

"The plans and schematics for his drones," Natasha clarifies. "We have Hammer's original suit designs, but Vanko's diagrams are missing, and we need to find them."

"Yeah, well good luck with that," I tell her with more bravado than I feel. "As you can see, they're not on me."

That is a mistake, because Natasha gives me the once over, and I'm feeling very underdressed now. I get an urge to drop my hands over my crotch; having seen this woman in action, I have no doubt she could turn me into a star in the Vienna choir with one kick.

"Your monkeys are safe," she assures me. "For the time being."

"I liked you better when you weren't, you know, deadly."

"Lots of people say that."

No surprise there. I give the door a meaningful look, but Natasha ignores that and studies me in a way that sends tingles up the back of my neck. "What?"

"Look, if you're serious about this damned bird, Hogan, then let's do it together. We'll take it to a vet, get it examined and X-rayed and that should settle the matter with S. H. I. E. L. D."

I think about it. While I think about it, I look _her _over, trying to be discreet, because I like both of my kneecaps right where they are.

Natalie arches one of those elegant eyebrows though, and I know I'm busted, so I just nod.

"Okay, but no funny business," I chide her. "I may not have the Hai Karate moves that you do, but I bite pretty hard."

"I do too," she tells me, and ohyeah, suddenly flimsy monkey-covered boxers are _not _the best attire of the moment.

I hustle out to get some clothes on before I make any more of an idiot of myself.


	2. Chapter 2

Uncle Max is _not_ shy about eyeballing Natasha, and given his vantage point, he's got a perspective a lot of us wouldn't mind. "Oy! You brought me a present," he mutters happily, looking up at her.

"This is Natasha. She hurts people for a living," I introduce her as simply as I can.

Natasha doesn't seem to notice the gleam in my uncle's eyes, although I'm not sure how she's missing it, magnified as it is through his lenses.

"Sir," she murmurs, and glances around the house. Between the chirps, caws, hoots and squawking, Natasha looks ever so slightly nervous.

"Hoo and polite, even," Uncle Max waggles his bushy eyebrows. They look like two wooly caterpillars doing the samba when he does that.

"We're here for the cockatoo, Max," I tell him, hoping to take his attention off the underside of Natasha's breasts.

"Da boid? Yeah, yeah," comes the reluctant grumble. "Dis way."

We pass through the foyer and into the living room which is pretty much done in Early American birdcage from wall to wall. Lots of flapping, chattering and rustling happens as we step in. Natasha hides it well, but I can feel her tension and I wonder what sort of terrible incident in her past has her so tweaked about birds.

Max turns and waves a hand, looking like a tiny fuzzy car salesman showing off a new line. "Really sum'in, huh?"

"Yes," Natasha shoots back, her spine all stiff.

"You wanna canary? I gotta bunch needs homes."

"Nothankyou," she rushes, and then brushes her hair back.

God she's hot. Standing behind her, I get to take in that bouncy ass of hers for a few glorious moments.

"Hokay, but if you change your mind," Uncle Max tells her, "I'll gif you canaries like you never hed. Trust me."

Natasha says nothing, and I have to wonder about her dedication to an organization that sends a sleek man-killer like her after a cockatoo. S.H.I.E.L.D must have some weird-ass agenda, or else they think the bird really is some sort of serious threat to the American way of life.

Either way, I'm not minding it so much if I get a chance to grab an eye-full of booty.

"In here," Max intones, and leads us further back into the house, where there's a hallway closed off with wire doors at each end. I spot Vanko's sulphur crested in there all alone, dangling upside down on a thick rope.

Swinging.

"What's wrong with him?" Natasha demands, and her voice is tense.

"Nuttin," Max tells her, sounding a little baffled. "His havink fun."

"Fun?" she repeats, like it's some sort of federal offence.

"Yah, fun. You know, vid da schwinging."

Natasha tilts her head ever so slightly as all three of us watch the birdie for a moment. The Sulphur Crested senses us and clambers right side up, making the rope move even more from side to side. He turns to eye us, and Natasha steps back, right against me.

Nice, if only for the second it happens, since she darts forward again, not even admitting it happened.

"I didn't know birds had . . . fun," she says.

"Oh yeah," Uncle Max assures her. "You betcha. Cockatoos, dey like fun. Schwinging, chewing, playing vid da hair . . . "

A whimper.

I _know _I heard a whimper this time and while I'm not the brightest headlight on the highway, I make the connection right there.

Little girl Natasha plus birds plus that wild, wild hair.

Oh I bet it was bad. Bad enough to still creep her out even now. Before I can say anything though, Max is opening the wire door and stepping inside the hallway, making his calming birdy noises as he does.

"Hey gorgeous, how ya doin-ink? Vee got some comp'ny right now vanna see you big fellah."

Natasha's back up against me and she's not going any further while Max holds up a wrinkled old paw and the bird steps onto it like the Queen Mother getting on a platform.

Max turns around, and I guess he gets a look at her face because all of a sudden his expression is sort of sad. "Oh. You're not . . . comfortable vid boids, are you?"

"You could put it that way, yes," Natasha agrees, which I think is pretty damned big of her. This is the woman who managed to tap-dance her way through Hammer's security guards but here she is admitting that there might just be a tiny little issue in her life.

Reluctantly admitting it.

"Ah vell," Uncle Max sighs, "Nobody's perfect, darhling. Me, I'm not so hot for boogs. Creepy crawly, oy, can't put up vid dem."

"Max," I push a little, and he nods, motioning for me to bring over the cage. I do, and the Sulphur crested steps into it easily. I don't know what Max has been putting in his food, but this bird is relaxed now; damned near casual.

"Where are you takink him?" Max asks as we both step out of the caged in hallway.

"Vet," I mutter, looking away. Max isn't going to like having the bird seen by someone other than Doctor Clowderbock.

"Why? He's in poifect health! Dat's a GREAT lookin' boid!" comes the protest.

"Gotta get him checked out, Max. It's . . . business."

Max looks at Natasha in her ninja suit. "Business."

"Yes, Mr. Goldstein, business," Natasha tells him quietly and in a flash I realize---

I didn't tell her his full name.

I didn't tell her his full name, and it really _steams_ me that she knew who Max was all along. In fact, she could have come here by herself, but no, she needed someone to handle the bird FOR her and that mean suckering yours truly into the job.

I. Am. Pissed.

Max, however, is beaming again. He takes Natasha's hands and gives them a squeeze. "Hokay den. Lemme know if you need him a home after his fizzicle, because I'm tellink you, he's a king. And come beck if you need any other boids, Natasha. Promise me I'm your mavin on dat, right?"

"Yes," she tells him, and then the damnedest thing happens.

She smiles.

In the weeks this woman has been working for Tony and Pepper, I've never seen her smile. Not _once _in all that time. It's always been that straight-faced look of quiet service with no expression to it, but now—

Oh boy it's a hell of a smile. Seriously, Natasha goes from gorgeous to something way the hell _beyond _gorgeous when you add those teeth and that dimple into the mix.

This makes me even madder, in a weird way, because smiles like that aren't supposed to be given to my eighty-year old uncle for crying out loud. I take the birdcage, mutter my thanks to Max and get the hell out of the house, heading for the car and trying to figure out why I'm so damned mad.

The bird gives me a shitty look as I put the cage in the back and strap the seat belt around it. Immediately he starts to chew on the thing through the bars, but at this point I don't care. I drop myself into the driver's seat as Natasha climbs in on the passenger side.

"Head for the National Park," she says, "There's a van there with our expert in it."

"Anything _else, _your highness?" I snap.

"No," she tells me, and buckles up.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. van is like a moving van. Huge, in non-descript colors and parked in the back lot of a trucker's rest stop where nobody will give it a second glance. I pull the car up behind it and park, fuming and waiting for Natasha to try and tell me what to do next.

Instead she sits there, saying nothing, and after a while, I'm the one feeling a little uncomfortable. I look at her.

Natasha looks at me. "I was six," she says in that quiet, emotionless way of hers. "A raven tried to snatch a barrette out of my hair and got its claws tangled. A _huge_ raven. My scalp, my face, were all scratched up and bleeding. I broke my leg when I fell down the steps of the school fighting it off."

"That would do it," I nod. Part of me wants to give her a pat, but that's a scenario that wouldn't end well, so I don't. Still, I feel like shit for being pissed and I feel bad for the little kid in her who'd gone through that.

She lifts those delicate shoulders of hers in a shrug. "It's minor in the scheme of things."

"I'm guessing S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn't run into bird-related evil too often."

"Not too often," she agreed, and then wonder of wonder I get a smile directed at me.

Oh boy.

My stomach feels funny, and my mouth is dry; it's like I'm fifteen again, all squirmy hormones.

"Come on, Happy, let's see what's in the bird," Natasha tells me, and climbs out of the car.

The inside of the S.H.I.E.L.D. van is decked out like a rolling lab, and air-conditioned to boot. I carry the bird in, looking around suspiciously, but no one's in the van but a skinny old guy with a bush of grey hair and a beaky nose. He looks like an upended mop in a lab coat, and I could probably put him down just by breathing hard on him.

"Agent Romanov," he nods at Natasha, but his eyes are on the bird, "and this must be our little avian friend."

"Friend?" I mutter, because this guy sounds like Uncle Max. Bird people are definitely a type I guess.

"Oh most assuredly," the old guy agrees. "Cacatua galerita, and what a prime specimen! I have something he'll probably like . . ."

Out comes some sort of kibble-looking treat, and by the way the bird is going for it, I'm assuming it's the Cockatoo equivalent of caviar.

Bird eats it and the vet carries the cage over to a table. Just as I move closer, the bird droops, sways, and lies down on the floor of the cage.

"You frick'n poisoned him!" I yelp.

"Oh no, no! Drugged, but only for half an hour," the vet says, looking at me with a scared little glance. He knows I could break him in half, clearly, but I'm betting he's counting on Natasha stopping me from any such thing. "So he can be safely x-rayed, of course."

"I knew that," I mutter, to cover myself. Natasha shoots me a sidelong glance that tells me she's not buying my little bluff, but I'm busy watching the vet pick up slinky boy and set him on a tray.

The guy's gentle; I'll give him that, and from all the cooing he does, I swear he's part bird himself. Finally he runs a little strap over the bird to hold him in position and slides the tray over to a table with one of those dentist x-ray cameras that swings on a pivoting arm. Natasha gestures that we need to move around one of the cabinet areas and I do, mostly because I don't want my personal goods exposed to radiation.

Crowding with her in the semi-darkness is sort of fun. Natasha doesn't say anything though, and we can both hear the vet humming and clicking. I get a whiff of perfume.

I didn't know S.H.I.E.L.D. agents wore Shalimar, but it's a good scent for her, especially here in the dark.

"All done," the vet sings out and reluctantly we come out of hiding. Natasha still isn't getting too close, even though the bird is still sprawled out like a little fly-by victim.

"He's going to be okay, right?" I demand, knowing Max will grill me about it if the bird isn't back in pristine condition.

"Oh yes," the vet assures me. "He's clearly been well taken care of. From what I can tell, he is in fact a he, and probably no more than four years old. Hand-reared, and a little under-exercised. Probably from the north of Australia originally."

"Is that a fact?"

"Certainly," the vet nods. "They're indigenous there."

I'm not sure what that means, but he sounds happy about it, so I don't argue. "No spy gadgets or plans in him then?"

"Not tattooed on him, although I'll have to examine the X-rays to see if he's got anything internally."

So we wait until the x-rays are developed and then all three of us look at them up on the light window. Me, I can't see anything but a sort of black and white mini version of a Thansgiving turkey with no stuffing. I'm guessing it's what the doc sees too, because he gives a shrug.

"He seems to have all his needed viscera and nothing extraneous within him, Agent Romanov."

"Are you sure?" she asks, but the doc nods to her.

"I am. For all intents and purposes, you have a healthy, lovely cockatoo with no addenda. He'll make someone a fine pet."

"You want him?" I ask carefully. I know Max will give him a good home, but considering how many mouths he has to feed already, it might not be a bad idea to farm the bird out to someone else who likes feathered friends.

"Oh I would be delighted!" the vet chortles out, looking at me like I'm Santa.

Natasha's look isn't nearly as thrilled, and I'm surprised my balls haven't pulled up from the frosty stare she's shooting me, but what the hell. Bird's in the clear, and finding Vanko's plans somewhere else is HER problem, not mine.

"I'm willing to pay a fair price, of course," the vet babbles, and I fight a grin at the thought of turning a little profit here, so I cock my head, considering it.

"Mr. Hogan, I'm not sure this is a good idea," Natasha growls at me in that slow she-wolf way of hers, but I'm feeling brave and ignore the warning.

"Because you're a man in the know, Doc—fifteen hundred," I offer the vet, who immediately begins to pat his pockets.

"Oh yes, oh yes, that's incredibly generous of you---" he warbles, pulling out a checkbook in a heavy leather cover. It's as fancy as one the Boss would write, so I'm pretty sure the check isn't gonna bounce, although_ I_ might, given Natasha's expression.

"Doctor--!" she tries, but he waves her off with a happy little smile.

"Now, now, Agent Romanov, please! The bird is on the record as clean and at this point this is a personal transaction that I will register with the proper authorities," the vet tells her firmly. "In the meantime, I have a lovely holding pen in the back that will suit my new little feathered friend to a T."

He hands me back the cage and carefully scoops up the tray with Mr. Snoozy on it and disappears towards the front of the van, leaving me with Natasha.

"S.H.I.E.L.D. _can _put a hold on that check," she tells me in a very miffed voice.

I tell her what _else _S.H.I.E.L.D. can do, and stick the check in my pocket before picking up the birdcage and heading out of the van.

By the time I got home it was dark. Home, for those in the know, is the secluded little gated community across the road from the Stark Mansion. I've got one of the houses there, and the other three are for the housekeeper, Dolores, her sister, and the groundskeeper, Chan. We're a neighborly bunch, and I've known them for the last seven years or so.

There's an elevator in each house that leads to the lower level garage, and the moving sidewalk that takes us under PCH up to the mansion, so commuting is pretty much a matter of minutes, which is the way Mr. Stark likes it.

Anyway, I've got the Spanish Colonial off on the right side of the cul-de-sac. It's a great place, with enough room for me and my hobbies. I've got my own gym, my own den, and enough privacy to make me comfortable.

And I _was_ comfortable, all the way until the two goons outside the security gate tried to yank me outta the car.

I've had a lotta practice with goons; you don't work in my job without it, and although I'm no spring chicken, I can handle myself. These two weren't coordinated enough to team up, and I took one out with a well-timed car door slam. Nothing like forty pounds of steel crunching a hand to stop your average idiot in his tracks.

The other one was faster though, and had some of those damned ninja moves that Tony thinks are so hot. I got knocked down by a leg sweep and was taking a few good ones to the nose before he suddenly flies off me, yanked up like a puppet on a string.

I get to my feet and Natasha's already got both of them trussed up, calling for S.H.I.E.L.D. to come pick them up.

She looks at me and nods to the car. "Let's take care of your nose."


	3. Chapter 3

"You were following me?" I manage through the blood leaking down my shirt. It hurts a little, but I've had worse.

"Good thing too, apparently." Natasha points out, and opens the driver side door. There's a tense moment, but I let her drive—just this once—and I don't have to give her directions.

Things are a little tricky once we get inside my place. The downstairs john has some first aid stuff, and I strip down to my tee-shirt, wishing I wasn't such a prolific bleeder. I've got stamina, and my footwork's okay, but the curse of my professional career in the ring has always been this tendency to gush from the slightest gash. I swear a couple of my TKOs were simply because I got the damned sympathy vote from the judges.

Eh, water under the bridge. Or maybe blood.

Anyway, I start trying to stem the flow when little Miss Helpful crowds in and starts pulling a Florence Nightingale on me.

"I can do it myself!" I tell her, maybe not in the most grateful of tones.

"Don't be a martyr, Hogan," she tells me in a voice I haven't heard before. It's not her usual business monotone, so I put the lid down on the can, sit down and let her go ahead and clean me up.

It's weird. I'm nervous and the pain is starting to kick in, but I'm also curious about why the hell Natasha's doing this. I'm not Pepper, I'm not Tony—I'm not anybody she's supposed to be looking out for.

"You don't have to do this, but—I appreciate it," I mutter, hoping that covers everything.

"You would have taken him down," she tells me. "Eventually."

"Oh thanks," I grouse, touchy now because both my nose _and_ ego are smarting. Natasha's fingers are gentler than her words, though. She hands me a glass of water and some Tylenol and I take them.

"Think about it, though—two someones were coincidentally waiting for you outside the gate to your house? I'm going to bet that they're a couple of Hammer's men, looking for the same thing _we're _looking for."

I start seeing the picture, and it's not pretty. "Damn," I mutter. "That's nuts—you saw Hammer's warehouse; it's huge! Vanko could have hidden his stuff anywhere in that place."

"Vanko didn't have _access _everywhere," Natasha reminds me. "Or time. And Hammer's major domo took off in all the confusion at the Expo. If he's under orders, chances are good that Justin wants those schematics as a hedge against jail time. Hold still-"

She wipes up my face with a cold wet cloth and I let myself enjoy it, but only for a few seconds.

Then it hits me. "The cage," I mutter.

For a second we look at each other, and then move at the same time for the bathroom door; she's littler and gets out first, but I have the advantage of the car keys.

The cage is still there, and after bringing it inside, both of us look it over, pulling off the bottom tray and examining the water cup. Nothing looks remotely out of place, until I tug on the wooden beam that makes the perch across the center. It unhooks and while one end is solid, the other is hollowed out; enough to let a little flash drive slide out.

"I got it!" I tell Natasha, and she gives me another one of those smiles.

I smile back, but I wrap my fingers tightly around the flash drive just the same.

"Let's take a look at it," she murmurs.

"What's going to happen to it?" Suddenly I'm back in the real world, and not so sure what's the right thing to do. If Tony were here I'd pass it to him in a heartbeat, but he and Pepper are still in Flushing, and I've got a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent standing close enough to undo all the nice work she's just done on my nose.

"If it's the schematics for the drones and the electric whips, then S.H.I.E.L.D. will probably hand them to the reverse engineering team already working on the scavenged remains of Vanko's weapons," she tells me honestly. "The arc technology in them is already obsolete."

She may have a point, but I'm not ready to concede it. "Why should I give it to S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"Because the only other interested party is the military," she reminds me with a frown. "Hammer would use it to get a reduced sentence, and the thought of those drones or whips getting bought up by anyone bidding the right amount of money . . ."

It's not a pretty picture, and I frown back. Sometimes I wish Stark Industries hadn't gotten out of the weapons business, I really do. Tony going all noble makes it tougher to know what the right decision is, but at this point I don't really think I've got a choice.

"What you _really _mean is that you'll kick my ass and take it from me if you have to," I say to her in a resigned tone.

For the record, Natasha looks genuinely contrite for a moment. "I'm sorry, but yes, I would."

"I figured," I sigh. "Let's take a look at it first, though."

I move into the den and fire up the computer, feeling a little self-conscious. Nobody comes in here but me, and I've got a lot of books on the shelf that I don't want Natasha to see.

Nothing porn; just . . . reference material.

She seems focused on the monitor though, so I may have dodged a bullet as we watch my wallpaper photo of Ali and Frazier comes into focus.

"October first, nineteen seventy-five," Natasha murmurs, and I think I just might be able to fall in love with her for that alone. Any woman who knows the date of one of boxing's most iconic fights has a shot at winning my heart.

I say nothing; not wanting to ruin the moment. I plug the flash in, and tap on the file prompt. Immediately a flurry of backward letters shows up, but Natasha leans closer, mumbling a little.

"Cyrillic," she tells me. "Definitely Vanko. But not . . ."

"Not what?"

"Technical," Natasha growls."This is all just . . . writing. A diary."

I make her read part of it out loud to me, and it's definitely not plans for robots. Most of it is sort of ranting, but there are some poetic turns of phrase, and Vanko's assessment of Hammer as "the walking capitalist American sphincter' has me snorting.

"You gotta admit it's a great description," I point out to Natasha, who simply rolls her eyes and clicks the file closed.

"Be that as it may, this doesn't help us find what we're looking for," she snaps. "Still; we'll run it through Cryptography—maybe there's something there that's not obvious."

"Okay," I tell her, feeling a wave of disappointment. It's been sort of fun to have her around, but I doubt she'll be coming back now that she's got what everyone's been looking for. I watch her tuck the flash drive away in a pocket and sigh.

Natasha gives me this unreadable look. I've seen that written a lot but never knew what it meant. Now I see that it's the same sort of expression you see on the Mona Lisa; mysterious and beautiful, especially on someone like Natasha.

We head to the door. "I guess this is goodbye," I mumble. I'm not really good at those. Part of being one of the background people means that I don't do much helloing and goodbyeing.

She swings around and catches my face in her palms, bending me forward and hooboy, as Uncle Max would say. Me, I'm not saying anything because Natasha Romanov is kissing me.

Kissing.

ME.

It's soft and sweet and hot. She's got the plumpest lips; I can vouch for that up-close and personal now, and between those hands and lips I'm pretty sure I look like an Angus steer who's just gotten the mallet to the forehead, but in one HELL of a good way.

I kiss back; the reflex may be slow, but it kicks in just as Natasha groans and pulls back, tossing that crazy curly hair back.

"See you at work, sweetheart!" she calls loudly, even though I'm right there in her face. Or as near to her face as I can get without kissing her again. I _want _to kiss her again too, hell yeah. My hormones are surging to the forefront now, ready to rampage now that they've been given the green light, but across the street I see Dolores and her sister standing on their porch, giggling and staring at us.

Natasha flounces off, sassy as shit, that great ass of hers bouncing along in the twilight, and I deliberately close my eyes, feeling like the world's biggest idiot.

Dispiritedly I manage a wave at Dolores.

"Su novia es muy bonita, señor Hogan!" she tells me and I give a nod, moving like a shuffling zombie back into the house, trying not to let the hurt hurt quite so much as I hear the security gate close behind Natasha.

I may be an aging palooka, but even_ I_ know when I've been sucker punched. Yeah Natasha is still undercover and is making up an alibi for being at my house after hours. I get it.

I feel so _used._

For the next few days I put whatever energy I can into getting Mr. Stark's garage in order and checking on the new security up at the house. Pepper's authorized the renovations—I think she's got most of the contractors on speed dial these days—so it keeps me busy to make sure that things are running smoothly.

Busy is good. Busy means I don't have time to think about a certain tight-assed little redhead and her undercover organization. Part of me hopes that she and her cohorts figure out whatever Vanko was raving about and take off for parts unknown.

Good riddance, you know?

I try to write too; took the time to check what 'indigenous' meant, not that I'd be using it anytime soon. Somehow I can't imagine the Laird of McInnes throwing that out in conversation with his willful and beautiful young fiancée out on the windy crags of Scotland's cliffs.

Still, it's always good to beef up the vocabulary.

Uncle Max takes the check with a lot of grumbling until he sees the name on it. Turns out the bird vet is one of the top ones in the country, to that helped ease things. Uncle Max tries to talk me into a few canaries to make me feel better, but I don't take him up on the offer. I've had enough of birds for a while.

He also reminds me to get a date for cousin Ruby's wedding, which is looming up over the weekend.

Fat chance.

It's only when I pick up the birdcage to pack it away, thinking maybe I can drop it off at Goodwill or something that I realize the perch stick isn't back in place. I try to shove it back in, shook it—

A second flash drive falls out.

Son of a bitch.

This makes for an interesting dilemma. Interesting because it means that now I have something that Natasha is going to want and on the other hand, it's something I don't necessarily_ have_ to share with her.

Of course, it could turn out to be nothing—maybe Vanko's porn stash, or his travel documents, but I get the feeling it's not.

Decisions, decisions . . . I stick the drive on my key ring along with my personal one and stay quiet as I get dressed for work.

It's good to meet Pepper at the VIP lounge at the airport; she looks a hell of a lot better now than she did at the Expo, and I'm wondering if it's because of her resignation or the emotional consummation that probably followed it. Not that it's really any of my damned business, but the way she and Tony have been circling around each other, especially in the last year, it's pretty obvious they're meant to be.

And I'm glad. I know they're both better together than apart.

On the way back to SI, Pepper fills me in on a few details and then comes the kicker. "Until Justin Hammer is convicted, Natalie—Natasha—will be staying with us at Stark Industries, Happy."

"Why?" this is out of me before I can stop myself, and I shoot Pepper a glare in the rearview mirror of the limo. Pepper looks uncomfortable.

"Because Hammer-"

And I remember, feeling a rush of anger. "—made a direct threat against you," I finish. Natasha and I *both* heard it over the video linkup.

Pepper nods, looking both pissed and embarrassed. "Tony thinks . . . well, there are places Natasha can go with me that you . . . can't."

I can buy that. I don't _like_ it much, but I know what the Boss means. An ex-boxer hanging around outside a woman's spa is obvious and creepy.

"Happy, I'm sorry," she murmurs and reaches out to pat my shoulder.

"S'okay," I sigh. "There are two of you to look out for now, so it makes sense."

We make it in to Stark Industries and I can't say I'm not a little tense when a certain redhead greets us in the lobby.

"Welcome back, Ms. Potts," Natasha murmurs, handing over a clipboard and not even shooting yours truly a glance.

Two can play at that game, so I wait until the ladies start moving and take flank position with Pepper's briefcase, getting a double view nice enough to make up for any hurt feelings. We all have our preferences, and I make no apology for discreetly preferring a sweet behind.

Two, in this case.

Both girls are chattering a mile a minute as we navigate through the halls and by the time we reach the main office, I've got my game face on; I'm good.

". . . and I'll need you to go out to the mansion to pick up Mr. Stark's wallet and three of his suits," Pepper tells Natasha. "The choice is up to you, but I'd consider the pinstripe Hugo Boss, the linen Blanco Torrido and maybe one of the St. Laurent ones. You can accessorize the cufflinks and dress shirts from the right hand side of the closet, please. Happy will take you."

"I can go myself," Natasha tries to blurt, but I cut in.

"I'm heading that way to sign off on the perimeter installation; it won't be a problem."

It's a very chilly elevator ride down to the ground floor.

One thing I've noticed is that Natasha doesn't fidget. She stands perfectly still and doesn't expend an ounce of unneeded energy, which is probably why she's a hell of a hand to hand fighter. But it's off-putting as crap to other people, and I might have been one of them if I didn't sense that in _this _case she wanted to fidget.

I bide my time, and give her all the little courtesies that come with the job—opening the door for her, adjusting the temperature. I don't say anything, she doesn't say anything, so I put my concentration on driving.

Driving is like boxing; you gotta know when to weave, when to punch, when to get defensive, and when to deliver the right jab at the right time.

I sense my moment as we're halfway up the long driveway to the mansion.

"We need to talk," I tell her, glancing up in the rearview mirror.

Instantly Natasha gets flinty. "No we don't, Hogan," she shoots back. "We're adults in a complicated world, and you know as well as I do that it's necessary for me to maintain a solid cover while I'm here at Stark Industries, so you can just stop whatever romantic notions you may be entertaining. It was a nice kiss, but that's all it was, and there won't be any more of them anytime soon."

Pretty little speech, well-rehearsed and delivered in that sincere monotone of hers that could cut a guy cold. We pull up to the mansion, and I stop the car, get out, and open the door for her. When Natasha slides out and gets to her high heels, I give her my best bland look. "Actually, I was going to say I found a second flash drive."

She looks up at me, and bingo, the blend of embarrassment and surprise on that pretty face of hers is worth the moment. "What?"

"Yep. Still, I appreciate the nice kiss-off," I tell her, and walk up the steps to the house. This time _she's _the one scrambling to follow me, and we both hear workmen moving around in the front hall.

"Hogan," she hisses in a voice that puts a lot of threat into a very low tone. I shoot her a sidelong look.

"We've got work to do," I chide her, ever so sweetly.

So it goes like that for the rest of the morning. I do my thing in checking the security arrangements with Jarvis and a few of the tech guys who maintain the perimeter of the estate, and Natasha flounces around getting Tony's personal gear together. Let me state for the record that flouncing is a damned good look on her, too. Natasha practically shoots sparks out of those baby greens of hers when she's pissed, and I know I'm a rotten guy for provoking it, but I seriously enjoy watching her glare at me when nobody else is looking.

After all, what's she gonna do-beat me up?

She might, but I'm betting she won't—it would be hard to explain to the Bosses, and in any case, we've got a lot of witnesses around us at the moment.

Still, when I help her pack the trunk of the limo and get ready to head back to SI, I sense the drive back isn't gonna be as much fun.

"Hogan—" Natasha hisses when we pull out, "I _want_ the second flash drive."

"And I want an apology," I tell her with a quick glance in the rearview mirror. "Making assumptions is a bad habit."

"Like assuming I didn't know how to box?"

Busted. I hate that.

"Yeah? Well that's not the point," I grumble back. "The _point_ is that I'm in the catbird seat right now."

She gives me a look that could crystallize the blood in my brain. "Just what the hell does that mean?"

"It means," I bluff a bit here, "that I get to call the shots for the moment. You're not going to threaten me, and you're not going to sweet-talk me. Instead, you're going to cut me a deal."

Natasha gets quiet for a while, and I can feel the hairs go up on the back of my neck. It's dangerous, yeah, I know that, but it's also a little bit . . . fun.

If I live, that is.

"What _sort_ of deal?" she asks quietly and that's when I get an idea.

A really dangerous, bad idea.

"So, Miss Romanov-can you do the Chicken Dance?" I ask her with a straight face.


	4. Chapter 4

My cousin Ruby is a nice kid; one of the nicer cousins I have. She's from my mom's side who are all noisy happy bunch who migrated from New York to Van Nuys about twenty years ago. Ruby works as the office manager for some fancy firm that organizes computer systems world-wide, and she's getting married in a corner of Delano Park.

This will make the fourth family wedding I've been to in the last three years, and the first one that I've brought a date along, which should squelch a few annoying assumptions that have been cropping up about me. Given the kind of arm candy Natasha makes, I'm hoping I get some actual respect this time, if not a little outright envy.

She's gorgeous, although I dunno if I'm crazy about her hair being up in a twist like that. I guess Natasha's going for sleek elegance this time, and the little green linen number is a knockout on her, so I can't complain. She's not saying much, and I can tell she's irked about it, but a deal is a deal: one family wedding for one flash drive.

The Boss and his tactics are rubbing off on me, I guess.

Anyway we're getting seated and of course Uncle Max is there, delighted to make his way over to us—Natasha anyway- and smile.

"Natasha! You look as gorgeous as an Emerald lorikeet chickie!"

"Mr. Goldstein," she says, but Max rolls his eyes behind his thick glasses.

"Call me Max, sweetheart! So, the cockatoo is vid the big doc now, eh?"

Max settles in with us and little by little Natasha is defrosting as we both listen to Max rattle on about birds, the weather, Ruby, the cute catering assistant—all sorts of stuff.

I don't mind, since Max is good at drawing people out, and I look around. People are noticing Natasha with me, and that's a good deal, oh yeah, especially the discreet thumbs up I'm getting from a few cousins, mostly guys.

The ceremony is nice. Ruby looks like a happy cupcake in a wide foamy dress, and her groom, George, is a big guy who keeps grinning at everyone through it all. We watch and enjoy it from our seats out on the lawn of the park; it's a nice Saturday, and I'm glad Tony is holing up for the weekend and doesn't need a driver or bodyguard for the next two days.

When the official part of the wedding is over, all of us get up and make our way across the park to the community hall there. Natasha and I go slow, letting Max take his time, and I'm grateful that she seems to like him.

"You shoudda seen Happy in his prime, dahling," Max is telling her, and my ears are going red now. "Lotta power, good right uppercut, but a bleeder."

"I know," Natasha says and I clear my throat warningly.

"What?" Max frowns, thinking it's for him. "Just being honest!"

"She doesn't need to hear about that," I mutter, feeling my ears go red. I'm sure Natasha and her organization have got all the info on me that anybody ever needs, and having Uncle Max pull up the less glorious highlights is something I'd like to avoid.

"You're right," Uncle Max decides. "She doesn't need to hear about violence, not a pretty flower like her."

The 'pretty flower' is trying hard not to make a face, and I'm smirking now because it _is _pretty damned funny. If Uncle Max had seen the body count that I'd seen in the hall of Hammer's warehouse, he'd probably have a stroke.

We reach the reception hall and get Max settled in at a good table near the door, then I snag some champagne for both of them. People are coming in, patting Max and shaking my hand, looking for introductions, which I fudge on, mostly to save Natasha too much hassle. The guys are definitely on the envious side, which is doing a lot for my macho cred, and a few of the women are downright chilly, which is something I guess Natasha probably gets a lot, looking the way she does.

It's a typical wedding reception. I kiss my cousin, shake her hubby's hand, bring Natasha canapés and idly listen to conversations all around me as we sit quietly. The DJ is setting up at the far end of the hall and I'm dreading the dancing—or not. Natasha doesn't look receptive to it either, going by looks. Maybe we can both pass on it, with no hard feelings.

Max gets up to wander by the wedding cake table.

"Happy?" comes a familiar chirp, and I look up into the face of Sally Anne, of Sally Anne's Catering. Sally has catered the last few weddings I've been to, and her shrimp puffs are the stuff of legend. I look up at her and grin, realizing *this* is the cute caterer Uncle Max was talking about.

"Sally Anne! You _did_ save me some puffs, didn't you?"

"You bet I did, honey—not going to let my best customer down now, am I?" she counters back, and smiles at me, shifting a tray from one hip to the other. Then she looks over at Natasha, and when I follow her gaze, I realize the temperature has just dropped about ten degrees.

Natasha lays her hand on my arm, and I try not to look surprised.

"Ah, Sally Anne, this is my friend—"

"—girlfriend—"

"Uh, girlfriend, Natalie Rushman," I finished, not exactly sure of my poker face.

"Sally Anne Klein," Sally holds out her hand, and after a slow couple of seconds Natalie shakes it. I'm feeling the chill radiating off her and it's not clearing the confusion because Sally is no damned security threat.

Sally Anne clears her throat. "Nice to meet you."

Natasha gives this little nod. "Yes."

"Well, okay then. See you, Happy," Sally Anne murmurs and heads off.

I give Natalie a stare. "What the hell was _that_ all about?"

"I don't know what you mean," Natasha replies coolly, and drinks more of her champagne.

"Giving Sally Anne the No-Fly look," I clarify. "It's not like she's packing heat you know."

Natasha doesn't say anything, and finally a little light goes on in the back of my head. It's a crazy thought, one that can't possibly be true . . . right?

She can't be jealous. There's nothing to be jealous _of,_ regrettably. Sally Anne is a nice gal and a great cook, but she's not my type. Besides, jealousy would mean that Natasha is interested in me, possessive of me, aspects that do not add up because this woman is so clearly out of my league and off-limits.

I may be slow on the uptake about a lotta things, but I'm pretty sure thoughts of yours truly are not keeping Natasha Romanov up at night.

So I risk life and limb. "You're very cute when you're jealous," I tell Natasha.

I expect a cold, cutting stare and a tight-lipped denial.

"I don't care one way or the other who you flirt with, Hogan. It's of no interest to me," Natasha informs me, sitting back and crossing her arms. "Although for the record, you could do far better than someone in food service."

"She makes decent food," I watch Natasha more closely now, feeling a twist of weird sensations in my stomach. I'm not used to having my instincts pay off as Natasha tosses her head and looks away. "But she's not my type," I add.

Before I can say anything more, two kids rush up, one of them in tears and I have to deal with a mini-crisis. Uncles are supposed to do that, and when my niece Gina holds out her hand to show me the splinter, I'm ready with the sympathy. "Oh man, yeah, that's not fun."

"Fix!" Gina insists, her lip trembling while her twin, Alden, looks on anxiously. They're good kids, both trying to behave, but it's a big wedding and things happen. I know how that goes, especially when mom and dad are busy with other things.

"Okay Short Stack, let's wash it and see what we can do," I tell Gina, and pick her up. She's light for a four-year old, and clings like a monkey, giggling now. Alden takes my other hand, confident that Uncle Happy can fix anything.

Kids. How little they know, and how much they trust.

I'm about two steps away from the table when I realize Natasha's with us, moving towards the kitchen without making a sound. I let her come along.

One quick wash at the sink later, and I can see that the sliver of wood is sticking out from the edge of Gina's pinky. It's not too big.

"Hurts," Gina whimpers.

"I know, sweetheart. Let's see what I—" But before I can actually *do* anything, Natasha reaches down with her nails and gently uses them to tweeze it out, blowing lightly on Gina's finger.

"Magic fix-it breath," Natasha says softly, and smiles at my niece. "Now it's_ your_ turn," Natasha orders me. Gina holds up her finger and I blow on it. Gina giggles.

"Your turn!" she orders her brother, who blows on it like it's the last candle on a birthday cake. I'm not sure Alden's spit is all that sanitary, but Gina seems satisfied.

"Now I am better," she tells Natasha, who nods.

"Yes. Do you want a band-aid?"

Gina considers this and shakes her head. "Thank you," she throws to me and Natasha then takes Alden by the hand and heads back out into the reception. I watch them go, then turn back to Natasha, who is looking at me.

"Magic fix-it breath?" I ask her, grinning.

"She's a little girl; she has a right to believe in little girl things," comes her quiet answer.

And that's when it hits me, hard that I might just have a problem here, falling this much for a woman who thinks _that _sort of thing is important.

Three hours later, the DJ has run through most of the obnoxious tunes and is on some of the classic songs, giving the older folks a chance to hog the dance floor. The cake has been cut, the toasts made and most people are feeling pretty mellow. Even the rain outside doesn't change the good mood in the recreation hall.

I'm keeping an eye on a few of the mellowest ones myself to take the edge off my nervousness. I'm telling you, it's tough to be both family bouncer and debonair guest. Natasha is listening to Uncle Max again, and I feel her leaning a little against me.

"You two kids should get out there and cut a rug," Uncle Max tells her.

"Max—" I hedge, but Natasha is cocking her head like she's seriously considering it. I look at her warningly. A warning that she totally ignores.

"I'd love to. Let's go," she murmurs and before I know it, we're making our way onto the linoleum just as _Moonlight Serenade_ starts. I'm not even sure how we got here, but I look down and there she is, waiting patiently, so I take her into my arms.

Natasha melts into me, fitting like she was made specifically to dance with yours truly, and somehow I manage not to step on her feet as we move around to the music.

She feels _incredible_, warm and firm up against me, and my body is noticing big-time. More Shalimar perfume, and that subtle sexy scent of her skin as well. It's been a long damned time since I've been this close to a woman, and I can either be a gentleman, or a jerk about it. But I don't need to decide just yet, and we keep dancing, moving nicely.

This is good. This is _damned_ good. I really like having Natasha in my arms, and from the warm way she's snuggled against me there's a slight chance she's good with it too. My hands is at the small of her back, and I know I'd be pushing my luck to slip it any lower, but brother, I _want_ to.

Part of me keeps expecting Natasha to demand the flash drive, but I'm turning the volume down on that inner voice and just enjoying the moment, because times like this are few and far between. Chauffeurs don't get to join the party, and bodyguards never get to dance while on duty, especially ones who work for Tony Stark.

Then I tense a little. "Natasha—"

She's got her hand on _my _ass. Natasha Romanov is _squeezing_ my ass. Somewhere down below, Satan on skates and God as my witness, I'm gonna to remember _Moonlight Serenade_ forever.

"You can have the drive," I whisper hoarsely, "and my soul and my firstborn and all the rest of it."

"Shhhhh,' she murmurs, and I can feel her smiling against my shoulder, I swear I can. "Don't talk, just . . . dance."

So we do. It's like silk and wine and chocolate and the first day of summer vacation and the director's cut of _Citizen Kane_. When I get to be as old as Max, I'll still recall this dance with Natasha Romanov, and I'll die a happy man.

The music comes to an end too soon for me, but Natasha doesn't let go. She lifts her head and those baby greens of hers are bright even though she's not smiling.

"Hogan-"

From across the room comes the call for all single ladies to line up; time for the bouquet toss, which means the reception is winding down. We reluctantly step apart, and make our way back to the table, where Uncle Max gives Natasha a pointed look.

"You're not going for da flowers?"

"It wouldn't be good manners," she tells him. "Since I'm the guest of a guest."

"Gotta point," Uncle Max grumbles, "but still—legs like yours, dahling, I bet you could snag 'em even before Ruby lets go."

"Oh yeah," I agree. I give Natasha a look, and she nods; it's time to take off, before anyone else hooks us into conversation. She's kept her end of the deal and it's been worth it, so I'm ready to keep mine.

It's still raining as we run to the car, but I open the door for her first and when I climb in, I'm pretty soaked. The weird thing about California weather is that while it's sunny most of the time, when it decides to rain, it really cuts loose, especially along the coastline.

We head back to my place, since that's where Natasha left her car, and I see a few crews already putting sandbags out along the Pacific Coast Highway. The rain is heavier now, and making it hard to see since it's just past sunset, but I get us to the gate and through it, all the way up to my place.

Now comes the tricky part, but as I'm debating if I should ask her in or just hand over the drive and kiss her, Natasha runs a hand along her hair and speaks up. "I want to see what's ON the drive before I take it to S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Sure," I tell her, feeling a tiny bit deflated.

At the front door I toe off my shoes, and Natasha does the same with her high heels. I fetch some of the restocked towels from the downstairs john and hand her a few before taking a third for myself, moping up my face and hair as best I can. If I was alone I'd probably strip down and get into some sweats, just to be comfy, but I have company, so I don't.

We head back to my study, and I hand her the flash drive. Natasha makes me sit at my desk and then perches herself on the arm of the chair while we wait for the computer to boot up. She lets her hair down—a move I approve of—and dries it with one of the towels.

If we were a couple, I'd loop an arm around her hips, maybe even pull her into my lap. But I don't.

The boxing wallpaper comes up, and Natasha leans forward to plug it in. I love the look of her spine. The computer mentions it's found a new device and she taps on the mouse to open it up.

Bingo, we have schematics. Even a total non-engineer like me can see the blueprints and sketches as Natasha clicks from folder to folder. It's all in Cyrillic of course, but I'm sure she knows exactly what it all says.

I feel torn. Part of me is happy that the stuff's not in Hammer's hands and part of me is depressed because now that it's found, chances are pretty high that Natasha and S. H. I. E.L. D. will be heading into the sunset, possibly for good.

This was coming; I knew it was. I just wasn't ready for it to happen _tonight._

"Looks like Ivan's masterworks, right down to the command codes and projected upgrades," Natasha murmurs, her gaze still locked on the screen. "I could probably translate most of this—"

The power goes out.

Usually this isn't a problem, because the compound here shares part of the back up generator from the mansion, but it's off-line while the place is being re-built as part of the safety precautions. For a second, Natasha and I sit there in the dark, startled, and then I get up. "Hallway—I've got a flashlight there," I mutter. I'm not afraid of the dark and I know my own place well enough to navigate it without lights.

Natasha comes with me. I can't tell if it's because she's worried about me, or if she doesn't want to wait alone, but either way she's at my shoulder as I reach the foot of the stairs and pluck the flashlight off the charger.

"No candles?" she asks, and I'm not sure if it's a joke or not; in the beam it's hard to tell.

"Nope. I have a lighter somewhere . . ."

She's pressing close again, and this time it's not an accident. I press back, making it clear I'm on to her little game.

"Look, I don't know what you think you're doing, but it's not going to work," I tell her, trying for gruff and sounding dopey. "Today was pretty terrific, and I'm grateful you were nice to my uncle, but you've got what you _wanted,_ Natasha."

"Not quite," she shoots back, and surges up, hands going around to cup the back of my neck.

Bam! We're kissing again, and this time it's not slow and it's not soft. The inner beast in me has been taunted just a little too much by now, and I pull her in close, finally getting my damned mitts on that luscious ass of hers as I give Miss Romanov *precisely* the sort of kiss she deserves.

This means the flashlight is on the floor and rolling away, but I don't think either one of us gives a damn, because we're pretty much super-glued to each other, and neither one of us is letting go anytime soon.

Good is a woefully inadequate adjective for the way Natasha kisses. She's pushy and hot and delicious; if it wasn't for the pesky need to breathe I think the two of us would just stay cemented mouth to mouth. Hell, we're giving it a damned fine shot as it is, and I bet steam is coming out my ears.

Things like this do _not_ happen to me. I'm not Tony Stark; hell I'm not even Tony the Tiger, and still, I've got a gorgeous, sexy woman whimpering and kissing me as if nothing else matters.

I want her. I really, _really_ want her. Natasha Romanov is a smart, sexy woman and any other man on the planet, including my boss, would _kill_ to be where I am right now. So it's the hardest thing in the world to pull back and grip her little shoulders. I can't see her very well in the dim light, but her expression is definitely confused. "Happy-"

"You sure?" I rasp. Now she's grinding up against me in a vertical lap dance that's making me shudder. "Because s-sometimes you're really hard to figure out-"

She snorts, going up on tiptoe to nip my chin. "Hogan, ti takaya preslesnaya! Do I have to draw you a _diagram?"_

"Yes," I admit.

This _is _a woman who could probably snap my spine in two, and I'm not going to make any assumptions if I can help it.

She takes a deep breath and cups my face, bringing it down to hers again, speaking slowly, as if I'm an idiot, which I probably am. "I _desire_ you, Harold Hogan, and have since the day I met you. You're a gentleman and a gentle man as well as being smart, funny, loyal and willing to accept me for what I am."

"Yeah?" Not the most intelligent reply, I grant you, but she's brushing her lips on mine and I'm a little dazed.

"Yes. I hoped that maybe you desired me too—"

Now _that's_ an invitation I understand, but even as I pull her closer, I speak up because my conscience insists. "Natasha . . . I don't _do_ one-night stands."

She smiles at me. "I know. I don't either."

And that pretty much settles _that._

I pick Natasha up and carry her upstairs; she's light and kissing me the entire time, which is definitely fun. Once we reach the Master bedroom though, things get a little more intense. The darkness helps, although I'd love to get a look at her as she urges me to unzip her dress. That hair of hers is so soft and smells so good; I paw it a bit as I'm kissing her, and she giggles.

I know—giggling is not something I'd ever thought I'd hear from this woman, but here in the dark of my bedroom it's cute and sexy as hell. I'm very much into the moment and even a little worried that the fireworks are going to be an early show if I don't slow the hell down.

From her uneven breathing, it's clear to me that Natasha is pretty much in the same boat, and I'm wondering if her dry spell has been as long as mine. Whatever the case, we're about to make it moot as she slithers out of her dress and tosses it to my dresser.

I really want more light, because I'm getting glimpses of lace molded on a spectacular body. Then she's unknotting my tie and I'm going for my shirt buttons, cursing a little because I haven't been this clumsy and impatient in a helluva long time.

Natasha gives a pleased moan once I get the shirt off, and rubs my chest; I can't wait to return the favor, so I manage to get an arm around her and that first touch of skin to skin drives everything from my mind. I kiss her, she kisses me, and somehow we make it to the side of the bed.

I . . . have never been stripped so fast in my life. Natasha skins me out of my clothes like I was a banana being peeled. I'm stunned by how fast she moves and at the same time, I'm turned on like I can't believe. It's not just her ruthless determination, but it's also her soft kisses and quick fingers. Can't match Natasha's speed, but I do manage to touch as much skin as possible and it's oooh so soft.

She pushes me back and we land on the bed, her on top. I sense this is where she likes to be, and I'm not going to argue because body contact is now nearing overload. I flail one hand towards the nightstand, hoping I can reach one of the rubbers before I'm thoroughly ravished, and Natasha seems to understand my move. She slithers over me—damn that's a GREAT sensation—and fishes in the drawer.

"I want you _now," _Natasha tells me in a strained, husky voice. "I can't wait."

Fine by me, since I'm not sure how much control I actually have left at this point. Her chest is in my face and I've got my hands on her ass—it's getting critical as body parts rub body parts with increasing speed.

Natasha unwraps the rubber and scoots down, then gives a gasp, which is flattering and a little worrisome, because I suspected she'd respond that way. See, I'm . . . hell, ah, large.

Not long, really—well maybe a bit more than average, but in circumference . . . I'm definitely wide, and while that sounds like it would get me laid on a regular basis, the truth is, I'm aware that girth can hurt. I try to say something vaguely apologetic, but Natasha just tosses that wild hair of hers back and shoots me a glittery-eyed glance that practically smokes.

She rolls the condom on with her two busy hands, stroking all the way, and I'm gritting my teeth now, hoping I can keep it together long enough to *make* it together when Natasha rises up and spikes herself on me.

We both howl at the same time, sounding like a pair of sex-starved hyenas. I thrust upwards, she rocks her hips downwards, and Jesus God, we're off!

Now I'm not the kind to kiss and tell; I _have_ had sex before. Good sex, bad sex, mediocre sex, but on the soul of my sainted Aunt Mable, I have NEVER been ridden like a Triple Crown winner, pounding down the stretch for a finish line that has me cross-eyed and grunting like a caveman while Natasha sinks her nails into my pecs in an effort not to be bucked off.

Did I mention it feels like fucking heaven?

Slick and smooth and hotter than hell; Natasha is bouncing and all those lovely muscles inside her are making the anaconda moves up and down on that special part of me that is about to go Vesuvius.

Natasha grinds, leaning down to kiss me, and I've got presence of mind enough to slide a knuckle down between our bodies to let it brush against the slippery little button as she rubs against me, and bingo, _somebody_ is a very happy camper. She moans into my mouth, which is a lot nicer than it sounds, and the combination of taste, touch and ta-tas sends me into white-hot orbit.

I'm a little hazy about the next couple of hours. Given that my heart rate had been in the triple digits and I'd lost a quart of bodily essence, I'm willing to rest quietly, holding a damp and snoozing woman on top of me. At some point I got the condom off and into the garbage, and I'm pretty sure Natasha slept through even that part, which is gratifying in a backhanded sort of way.

It was still raining. It was still dark. And under the covers, I had Natasha in my arms.

Bliss.

Sometime between two and three, I wake up. That is, part of me wakes up; the rest of me takes some time. I feel a hand touching me, so I reach down to touch back, which quickly morphs into a concentrated episode of naked wrestling. I suspect Natasha is letting me win, but strangely, this doesn't bother me, particularly when I pull a move that allows me to lick, kiss and play with parts of her that normally are covered by her skirt.

Natasha is delicious, noisy and very grateful because she keeps wriggling and saying all sorts of things in Russian, and then she proceeds to_ return _the favor which I'm betting isn't listed on her resume, but deserves a whole page, with platinum stars and as many diamonds as I can put on it.

I dunno if this is S.H.I.E.L.D. training and I'm not gonna ask, but it would be one hell of a recruiting enticement, I can promise you that.

We cuddle for a while afterwards. She's in the mood to talk and I'm in the mood to listen, which works out really good for both of us.

"This is . . . not the way things happen for me," Natasha murmurs. "I'm not an impulsive person; I don't usually get swept off my feet."

"Yeah, I noticed that nobody sweeps _you_ off your feet," I reply, just to tug her chain a little. She gives me a sleepy nip on the shoulder and laughs against it.

"No. I was supposed to make myself useful to both Potts and Stark, and keep an eye on them. I _wasn't_ expecting to run into big bad YOU, Harold."

"Please," I groan. "Happy, or Hogan. The last person who got away with calling me 'Harold' was my mother, and even then, only when she was mad at me."

She laughs again. "Good. While we're at it, I'm Natalie, Natasha or Nat, but never _ever_ Tasha; got it?"

"Got it," I assure her, and stroke her back a little. "You really are sweet."

She looks at me in surprise. "Sweet. You say the most . . . unexpected things." Natasha strokes my cheek. "You're all right with this?"

I give a little sigh. "You're an assassin agent for a shadow agency that deals with super-powered entities and I'm an ex-boxer who spends his time chauffeuring and bodyguarding a playboy billionaire. I give us a million to one shot at managing_ any_ sort of workable relationship."

I expect her to laugh because I'm trying to be funny here, but instead, she just leans over me and rubs her nose with mine. "Be serious, Happy. I don't do anything halfway."

"I believe that," I assure her, "and for the record, I'm the same way. But you've gotta admit, we're a long-shot, even if you_ are_ crazy about me."

"And you're not about me, Mr. 'Ogle my ass every chance he gets'?" she hoots back at me, through a crooked little grin. "Hogan, I don't believe in love at first sight; that's a fallacy perpetuated by overactive hormones and literary tradition. What I _do_ believe in is instinct and intuition reinforced by background checks and personal experience. I thought I knew what to expect when I met you, but I didn't. Remember the ring?"

"Ohyeah," I grunt. Not my most shining moment, when I was condescending to her; taking out a little frustration on Natasha because Tony had gone all ninja on me a few minutes earlier. "God, I was a pompous bastard—I really AM sorry about that."

"Yes you were," she smirks, "but what got to me was that after I had you down, when I let you go and Tony was rubbing it in, you did something I didn't expect. You didn't get mad at me; you didn't call me names or accuse me of fighting unfairly. Happy, you made _yourself_ look bad by claiming to have slipped. Both of us knew I had you down, and instead of making a stink about it, you opted to let it go. Do you know how gentlemanly that was?"

"I didn't want to get my ass kicked a second time," I confess. "Certainly not in front of my boss!"

"Tony wouldn't fire you in a million years, and more to the point, it was that damned _courtesy_ of yours that first got to me. Unplanned, instinctive, and just the sort of thing that had me thinking that maybe I underestimated you," Natasha points out as she slides her hand over my chest.

This I like—this praise and stroke thing. If I was a mutt I'd be wagging my tail like crazy.

Natasha speaks again. "You didn't look for a rematch, or hold it against me anytime in Monaco or back in California. The more I worked with you, the more I got to know you. Smart, efficient, loyal. You're a man with no hidden agendas and a willingness to go to the mat for the people he cares about. That's a rare quality that's getting rarer all the time."

"Thanks, but just being employee of the month can't be the _whole_ story," I mutter, "right?"

"I like a man in a suit," Natasha confesses. "Particularly a nice big man with a cute ass."

"There you go; that's what I suspected."

"Cuteness factored into it a lot," she murmurs and I kiss the dimple on her cheek because she's referring both to the ride to, and actions at, Hammer's warehouse. To remind her that I'm more than _just_ a cute face, I roll over, pinning her lightly under me.

"Okay, you talked me into it. I am willing to work at this thing if you are, because you are an amazing, powerful, intelligent woman with great taste both figuratively and literally."

Her legs slide up around my hips, strong and sleek; it's nice to be on top, even if only once in a while. That wild hair is all over my pillow, and Natasha smiles up into my face. "Just for that, _you _drive-"

"Don't mind if I do," I tell her, and we're too busy to talk much after that.

Last word-

So things are pretty good for the moment. Both Nat and I know that can change any day, because between S.H.I.E.L.D. 's shenanigans and Mr. Stark's flamboyance, we're aware that the status probably won't stay quo. Still, as long as her boss has an interest in hanging around California and Justin Hammer isn't outta the picture, we're in a nice and easy routine, with an eye to the future.

Yeah, a future; we've talked about it a lot, and it's mind-boggling to me that Ms. Internationally Deadly secretly wants a home and a couple of kids as much as I do. So we've got a joint savings account, and been looking at house designs, and planning on an elopement when the time is right.

Hey, she proposed to _me_ and you don't think I'm foolish enough to turn her _down,_ are you?

That would be for the birds.


End file.
